


Taking Dictation

by Mithen



Series: Under the Influence [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Light D/s, M/M, Masturbation, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is tired of this nonsense on John's blog.  From now on, it's the facts and only the facts, as dictated by the world's only consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Dictation

"John. John. John."

John Watson continued typing, ignoring the sound of his name being spoken again and again in varying cadences: sometimes a childish whine, sometimes a barked command, sometimes a throaty whisper.

"John. _John._ Johhhhhn."

The metronome sound finally stopped. John braced himself.

Sure enough, a moment later a lanky form folded itself over the back of his chair, glaring at his computer. " _What_ are you working on," demanded Sherlock Holmes. _And why is it getting more attention than I am_ , his posture added wordlessly.

"If you must know, I am working on my blog," John said. He gritted his teeth, knowing what had to be coming next, and indeed, Sherlock started to read aloud in his most annoying sing-song voice:

_"I knew we were in for an interesting time when we ended up with three clients sitting on our couch: identical vintage suits, identical hairstyles, identical pencil-thin mustaches. I had no idea Gone With the Wind had such a big fanbase, but apparently these three chaps were all something called 'cosplayers' who specialized in pretending to be Rhett Butler. Little did we know that--"_

Sherlock broke off with a sigh. "'The Case of the Three Gables'? _Really,_ John."

"I thought it was clever."

"You probably did at that," murmured Sherlock, glaring at the computer screen. "You persist in using the most lurid and ridiculous language. 'Nearly miraculous powers of observation'? I despise when people call the results of human effort and ingenuity a 'miracle,' it does no service to humanity, John."

"It's a figure of speech, Sherlock. I didn't mean that God literally works through you."

"Then it's overblown _and_ imprecise." Sherlock gestured at the screen irritably. "And then all this claptrap about when I confronted the murderer, all this about my 'piercing gaze' and my 'voice of command,' it's ludicrous. I merely explained the facts to him and he rationally chose to surrender himself to the authorities rather than fling you over that cliff. It was all quite reasonable, not the Gothic melodrama you're spinning."

John tilted his head back to glare up at Sherlock in turn, feeling nettled. He thought he had captured the intensity of the scene rather well, actually: the murmur of the sea far below, Sherlock's face bleached white by moonlight, the urgency in his voice as he demanded John be set free. John had expected Sherlock to be grateful he had at least left out the aftermath--he suspected some of his readers might rather enjoy reading an account of frantic midnight sex in a ruined castle, but there were limits, after all--and yet here he was, getting scolded for using enthusiastic language.

Glancing at his relatively dry accounting of the conclusion of the adventure ("After Sherlock made sure I wasn't seriously injured, we wrapped up the case with little incident and our three clients were cleared of any wrongdoing") John suddenly remembered with a preternatural clarity the feeling of Sherlock's hands scrabbling along his body, the sound of Sherlock's breathless voice in his ear: "You're alive, you're alive, you're here with me, I didn't lose you." He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, then twisted the computer out of the way as long fingers abruptly tried to move the cursor to the "delete" key.

"Oh no you don't," he growled. "You don't get to dictate what I put on my own. Damn. Blog."

"Well, perhaps I should," said Sherlock. Then he chuckled, delighted with himself. "All right, let's give that a go. Start a new entry and type exactly what I tell you, John."

"Why don't you just hack into my account and write it yourself?"

Sherlock turned his head so his lips brushed John's ear. "Because I enjoy telling you what to do," he murmured.

That seemed a compelling reason. John saved his work and started a new blog entry.

"Now," said Sherlock, and John heard his fingers drumming on the back of his chair. "Start with 'My name is John Hamish Watson.'"

"No."

"No?"

"I don't use my middle name," John said.

"Mm." Teeth nipped at his earlobe, and John sucked in a breath of air that he found himself suddenly needing desperately. "Type it, John. Move those lovely strong fingers of yours and tap out your whole name for me."

Gritting his teeth on a complicated mixture of exasperation, amusement, and lurking arousal, John typed the sentence.

Sherlock made a happy, smug sound, then disappeared and reappeared on the other side of John's head. "Now, how about 'I am currently wearing a truly hideous jumper.'"

"That's a value judgment, not a fact."

"Ehhhh, no, it's a fact. I have observed its hideousness, measured it with a variety of senses--" A pair of long hands suddenly snaked down across the blue and green diamond-patterned cloth, stroking and analyzing. "Yes, it even _feels_ hideous, John."

"Sherlock," John felt compelled to point out, " _You_ bought me this jumper."

"Exactly," Sherlock pointed out triumphantly. "Type it, John."

John heaved a sigh and typed the sentence.

"An entirely factual blog entry, this is truly novel," observed Sherlock. "Continue. This objectively hideous jumper was given to me by Sherlock Holmes, who is my flatmate. Sherlock made me toast for breakfast this morning and did not burn it. We ate toast together from eight to eight-thirty. The sun was out and it made a rhombus of light on the table. Sherlock put the jam jar precisely in the middle of that rhombus, because he likes symmetry. "

"I think this might not get my blog a lot of hits," John said, as he finished typing _symmetry._

"John," Sherlock sighed in his ear, "You _thinking_ is not the point of this. You _thinking_ is not essential at all. _I_ think, and _you_ type what I say. That's all you need to do."

John contemplated a variety of responses to this, but before he could pick one, Sherlock was continuing. His breath was warm, his voice low and vibrant: "Stop thinking, John. Stop second-guessing. Trust me to be right and stop worrying about it. Type that on your blog: I trust Sherlock Holmes completely. Make it real, John."

At some point in Sherlock's little speech the screen had blurred to a pale white oblong, the words meaningless compared to the living voice at his ear. John dragged his attention back to it, tapped "Enter" twice, and typed the sentence with fingers that felt strangely awkward, distant and remote.

Sherlock made a small, breathy sound as he finished typing the last word, and John's fingers trembled at it. "Just the facts," murmured Sherlock. "God, what a beautiful sentence." He inhaled deeply once, then twice. "Type 'I think Sherlock is brilliant,' John." Long fingers caressed the back of his neck as he typed, and he lost himself in the pleasure of it, the delight of seeing that odd twisting name--all curves and swoops until that sharp angular kick at the end--of shaping it with his fingers, the familiar rhythm of the oft-repeated keys. _I think Sherlock is brilliant._ Easy to type. Easy to know.

"I, John Watson--" Sherlock's voice caught oddly on the name, and there was a note of disbelief in it, of wonder--, "--believe that Sherlock Holmes is an unparalleled genius. He's smarter than anyone in London. And England. And the world." John wasn't sure how to punctuate that--Sherlock wasn't generally given to sentence fragments, but there was a breathless, jerky quality to his words that was best expressed that way. Sherlock waited until he typed the last words, his fingers moving restlessly at the nape of John's neck. "His judgment is impeccable, his deductions flawless, his intellect awe-inspiring--" John's fingers were following along with his words, putting them on the screen, letting them flow from Sherlock through him and into reality. "--and his mouth eminently kissable." John would have closed his eyes at the pleasure of it, the simple delight of making Sherlock's words come true, but he needed to keep looking at the screen.

"Sherlock Holmes and I are lovers and I don't give a damn who knows it," Sherlock's voice went on. "I want to print it right here on this blog for you all to see. He's--he's the most important thing in my world. So say I, John Hamish Watson, and so it is. God, I am so turned on."

Sherlock chuckled slightly as John finished typing the last sentence. "I didn't mean you, John, I meant--oh, but you _are,_ aren't you?"

Of course he was. He had written it on his blog, hadn't he? Achingly hard, his erection pressing against the warmth of the laptop, lost in bliss as he waited for something more to type, for further instructions.

"Oh, John," murmured Sherlock. "Type it, type it, pull thoughts from the air and turn them into lovely Times New Roman, my blogger: I am awash in ecstasy, I am dizzy with arousal, there is no greater joy than obeying my Sherlock, my--" The voice at his ear broke off and Sherlock dragged in three deep breaths. "Oh, I can't stand it," muttered Sherlock. "Don't type that, John," he added sharply as John's fingers twitched. "You can stand it, you can stand anything, but I have to--"

John heard a zipper being undone, the sound of rustling cloth. "Ah," said Sherlock. "Right. Mm. Where were we?" His voice was clear and precise again, with the preternaturally crystalline lucidity that tended to signal rising arousal.

"'There is no greater joy than obeying my Sherlock,'" John read back dutifully, and Sherlock gasped, a gasp that trailed off into a groan at the end.

"Right. God. Okay, John. Type--type this: I, John Hamish Watson, am getting more and more turned on. Getting so close to coming. It feels so good."

John's hands were shaking hard enough that it was difficult to type legibly He kept making mistakes and having to back up; after a moment he gave up and just kept the typos so he could keep up.

"You can type one-handed, can't you?" Sherlock said.

"It's slow," John said. "More mistakes."

"God, I don't care," growled Sherlock. "Type it: I'm typing one-handed. My other hand is stroking my cock, because Sherlock wants me to do it. He wants me to come so hard. He's--God, he's so close himself, he can hardly--" Sherlock made a small sound that seemed caught between agony and rapture, and when he spoke again it was as if the words were torn from him, and John caught them and made them real on the screen, and lost himself in the pleasure of it.

* * *

The next morning, John Watson slipped out from under a grumbling, naked Sherlock, threw on his dressing gown, and wandered into the sitting room to find the laptop sitting forlornly on the floor, forgotten. Waking it up, he looked at the blog entry, still unpublished in the editing box:

_He's--God, he's so close himself, he can hardly--Shelrockk is so lucky, he needed me so much and nevber even kn ew it until we met, he's my best friend, oh God, I'll never get tired of hearing taht, no don't type that, never mind._

_I, Johsn Hamish Wateon, am the most impoertant thing in Sherlock Holmes's life, I make him feel so good, and I'm goijg to come listening to his voice I'm perfect John John John John yes I'm adkjadsjnn_

_dasjkdnw_

John rubbed at his mouth as he read the end, feeling the smirk there. His fingers hovered briefly over the "publish" button, but moved to the "delete" button instead and wiped the entry away.

Not, however, before he copy and pasted the whole thing into a file that he gave an extremely boring name and tucked away to save forever.


End file.
